Rum and Roses
by WaterGhost
Summary: AU fic set during the Prohibition era. A story of star-crossed lovers starring Santana and Brittany.
1. Chapter 1

This week because I've been sick I've been catching up with some TV shows and putting my Netflix account to good use. One of my new favorite shows is Boardwalk Empire, and a movie I watched this week was the Baz Luhrman version of Romeo and Juliet. These two combined with my favorite Glee pairing and my meds produced this little piece of work. Rating is for language and future sexual content, because a good Brittana fic needs a good sex scene, I believe :)

Review if you like it and think I should continue.

Disclaimer: Don't own, no profit.

Chapter One

It's a chilly night, and the city is quiet. It's a night of waiting, and Santana hates waiting.

Santana Lopez's plan is always 1. Think 2. Decide, and 3. Act. All in quick succession, with little time in between the steps. See the problem, fix the problem. That simple.

That, apparently, is not how this is going to work.

It's 1932. The economy is in the crapper, people are homeless, jobless, and hungry. But thanks to Prohibition, Santana has a very good job. Her father, the notorious crime lord Doctor Lopez, has sent Santana Lopez to confirm a potential lucrative business deal that would allow their organization to bring large amounts of cheap alcohol into the city. Santana and her father knew how good this would be for the business, and that's why she was sent to secure the deal. She was the only one he trusted to get the details straight, and Santana knew it.

Santana herself was a rarity, and she knew it. She defied her gender in her clothing, her mannerisms, her personality, and her status in the organization. Women just didn't do this. They got married; they stayed at home and popped out babies. But not Santana, she marched to the beat of no one's drummer but her own. She wore pants and vests, fedoras and belts when she worked, and no one blinked an eye. She didn't mind sporting a dress or a skirt on occasion, but it was always easier to work in men's clothes.

But she's smart. Smarter than her brothers, the useless _pendejos_, and she knows how to use a revolver. She has an eye for business, and she's an excellent judge of character. Her gender, therefore, became of no issue to her father, with whom she has always been close. Though not really an official member of the organization (her mother would never allow such a thing), her father often refers to her as his ace-in-the-hole.

Which is why she is here, sitting in a dark car near the train station, waiting for their potential business partners to arrive so that they can arrange their first meeting.

She turns to her wingman, a man named Noah Puckerman, who went by Puck. "Got a smoke?"

Santana pulls her lighter from her pants pocket and lights a cigarette to try to calm her nerves. She doesn't really smoke, but it's at least something to do when all there is to do is to sit and wait. She inhales deeply, then exhales a long plume of smoke into the cold night air. It helps.

"Nah," she responds nonchalantly and hands the pack back to her partner. Despite his constant come-ons and tendency to snap at the most trivial annoyances, she actually got along with Puck, and they worked well together. He motions for her lighter and lights a cigarette of his own.

"They're late," Santana says.

"Yeah," is Puck's response. "Keep your panties on, though. Unless," he cocks an eyebrow, letting the comment trail off suggestively.

"Sorry, I'm trying to stay disease-free," is Santana's quick reply and Puck laughs in response. They smoke their cigarettes in silence for a few moments before Puck chimes in again.

"Speaking of rolling in the hay, I heard you got caught again with that waitress from Ernie's. What was her name again?"

Santana can only chuckle. "That would be Rosie."

Santana smiles in fond remembrance. Rosie, her flame-haired on-again off-again girlfriend got a real thrill from having sex with the possibility of discovery, and Santana was never one to say no to a pretty lady. Her prowess in business was only surpassed by appetite for the fairer sex. It was yet another aspect of her that made her unique.

Santana's mother was mortified by her desire for other women, while her father and brothers found it quite amusing. She tells Puck about last week, when she had gone to Ernie's for a drink, and Rosie was working. They got into a big fight over some trivial thing, then went to the back room for some angry sex, where one of the bartenders saw Santana with her head between Rosie's legs. Then they fought some more and broke up. Such was Santana's love life.

Puck shakes his head in disbelief. "Man, little Lopez, for a girl you sure are quite the ladies' man."

After regaling each other with stories of romantic exploits, a few games of five card draw, and more than two hours of total waiting time, they see two black cars round the corner and stop at the end of the street. She and Puck turn to each other and nod gravely, put their guns into their respective holders and get out of their car. Santana counts the men that exit the vehicles. Six.

"Gentlemen," she greets politely. "So nice of you to come, if so late."

The group eyes the pair with a cautious gaze. They will all be armed, of course, though it would be bad manners to bring them out on a potential business meeting.

"You're a girl," one of the men, wearing a hat too large for his head, comments incredulously. "He sent a girl. Why on earth would we want to talk with a fucking girl and a little boy?"

She feels Puck tense beside her, sees his fingers twitch by his gun, but she lays a hand on his shoulder.

"If you want to talk to a man, go to the police station. But I represent the Lopez organization here and I have full authority from the Doctor to close this."

The man in the gray coat, obviously the one in charge based on his position at the front of the pack, finally speaks.

"Is the Doc serious?" he asks gravely.

"If you want to make money, and I mean real money, then get over yourselves and let's make a deal. With our connections and your supply both our profits could double or even triple."

The man in the hat scoffs. "And how do you know how much supply we have, little girl?"

Santana smiles slyly. "I might be a girl, but I've got friends with very keen eyes."

The man in the gray coat nods. "When can we meet with the Doc to hammer out details?"

"The Doc holds a poker night in the abandoned meat factory on Sanders street on Friday evenings. He said he would love to make it a business affair."

After what seems like a millennium of conference between the men, the one in the gray coat turns towards them.

"I look forward to meeting the Doc. Send my regards."

And just like that, the deal is done. The men all pile back into the two cars speed off into the night.

"Dammit, that went too well," Puck claps Santana on the back heartily, nearly knocking her off her feet. "You sure do have a way with words, you know that, Lopez?"

Santana lights another cigarette. "And you bet your ass I know it, Puckerman. I say this call for a celebration."

"A good stiff drink!" Puck howls into the cool night air.

Then, they hear a noise. Santana turns. It's a truck, barreling towards them, swerving back and forth across the pavement. She hears drunken cheering, and sees bottles hanging from the hands dangling out the window.

"Just a bunch of drunks," Puck comments, but his voice has a bit of concern in it. Something's not right, and he senses it.

The truck screeches to a halt just behind ahead of their position. Five guys stumble out of the vehicle, stinking of rum and cigars. They are all dressed in suits, nice sits, expensive suits, and then a realization hits her.

She's seen these people before, she recognizes the faces.

Pierces.

The Pierce family was the only other crime organization in the city, which made them the mortal enemies of the Lopez's. Thomas Pierce was their unanimous leader, and he hated Santana's father with a fiery passion, and the feeling was mutual. They had once worked together, but when prohibition was passed all good feelings soured and the city was quickly divided in two. Downtown and the eastern district belonged to Pierce, the rest to the Lopez's. It had been this way for a decade now. They two sides were in constant warfare, and right now Santana and Puck were severely outnumbered. At her best, Santana could handle a full-grown man. Enough, at least, to get away safely from serious harm. She has a decent right hook (thanks to the tutelage of her eldest brother, Mario), but she and Puck are extremely outnumbered here, and therefore, fucked.

"God damn it," she cusses to herself under her breath.

"Where you guys going?" one guys slurs. "I think I recognize you." Santana's heartbeat quickens, adrenaline begins to flood her body.

"Hey, it's the Lopez girl."

"What the hell is she wearing?"

"Hey Puckerman, why are socializing with the tomboy?"

Puck's short fuse is close to going off, and Santana is starting to see red as well. The five circle the two, laughing and jeering. Puck's fists are tightly clenched; every muscle in Santana's body is taught and ready to react.

"Fucking bitch."

Something within Santana breaks, and suddenly she's whaling on the nearest person with a strong right cross. After a few good punches she lands a knockout blow on the guy's nose, causing a fountain of blood to spurt from it.

She tries to rise to her feet but is caught in the stomach wiwth a sharp kick that drives the air from her lungs. When he swings his foot forward again, she catches it, and then swings her foot into his groin. He lets out a scream that is very satisfying to her ears, and then she's on her feet, kicking him like he kicked her.

It's all happening so fast. She glances over for just a moment to see Puck very capably fighting off two of the biggest of the gang members.

Then Santana sees the flash of a blade, and then feels a sharp pain in her shoulder, and looks at the knife protruding from her arm with disbelief. Puck comes to her aid and clocks the last assailant on the chin, knocking him out cold. She can only pull out the knife with a grimace and watch the blood stain her shirt.

"Fuck," Santana bellows angrily, kicking the man in the ribs a few times for good measure. "Fuck you!"

Two of the men are struggling to their feet.

"Come on!" Puck yells and pulls her good arm, shaking her from her reverie. "Let's get the hell out of here."

They take off down the alley at a full sprint, and wind their way through the tightly packed buildings, ducking and weaving. Santana thinks that she's starting to hear the footsteps of their attackers fading into the distance, but doesn't dare to stop and check. Santana can feel her wound bleeding, the warm liquid trickles down her left side and every movement of her upper body is punctuated by pain. Thankfully, after ten minutes or so of running and hiding, they can no longer hear or see their assailants.

They emerge from under the bridge, and Santana feels an immense sense of relief. They are back in Lopez territory, and out of the oven for now.

"Shit," Puck is sporting a badly cut lip, and he spits blood onto the pavement. "That was too fucking close."

Santana touches her cheek gingerly. There's going to be a nice bruised lump there tomorrow, but her still-bleeding shoulder is more worrying at this point. "You okay?" she asks.

"I'll live. How's the shoulder?" he replies.

"It's fine," she manages." Can you go back and get the car, though?"

"I don't think I should leave you alone though…"

"Go," she urges Puck. "I'll be fine."

He nods, pops his collar to hide his face, then turns on his heel to make his way down the street. "Get that shoulder looked at, ok?"

She smiles wanly. "I'm fine."

Puck waves goodbye and jogs off down the street.

She's not fine. The knife wound is fairly deep, deeper than she thought it was, and she's lost mobility in her left arm. She discards her long coat in the nearest trashcan and realizes she's lost way too much blood. Spots start edging her vision, the darkness growing with each passing moment. Shit, she curses to herself. Her stomach hurts, and she leans forward and pitches what little is in her stomach onto the pavement. When she feels a little better, she walks forward, placing one foot in front of the other in a concerted effort to move her towards safety. Her body, however, seems to have a hard time obeying her. She stops to regain her breath.

Then she hears something, but she has having a hard time focusing on the sound. Clicks. Rhythmic clicks. Footsteps? She looks up from the pavement, her limited vision darkening every passing moment.

A figure. A person. It stops. For what seems like eternity, it stands before her, stock still, taking inventory of the mess in front of it. Santana can't help herself when she says sarcastically,

"Can I help you?"

She tries to focus on the person's face, but everything swirls in front of eyes. But she can focus on the eyes. Green. Beautiful green eyes.

"Oh my God. You're bleeding."

Despite Santana's wooziness, she has to bite back another sarcastic remark. She tries to take a few steps back from the figure, the woman, but only stumbles back into the hard brick of the building behind her.

Her knees buckle.

The world goes black.

So what do you think? Any ideas on direction? Who was the mysterious lady? Review!


	2. Chapter 2

**Props to Naley2006 and Elenar Thorn. It was Quinn, mostly so I could look up pictures of Dianna Agron and Heather Morris and drool. Plus, I had to include Quinn in some form or fashion, right? There will be some other Gleeks in future chapters, too, but only ones that don't annoy me. Anyway, please keep reviewing, I love receiving feedback, and enjoy chapter two!**

**Disclaimer: Only own the fantasy. Don't sue.**

Rum and Roses: Chapter Two

When Santana regains consciousness, she feels the pain. She's alive. The pain means she's alive. For a second she forgets her stupidity of last nights' events, and is merely happy that she's not dead in that alley. She uses her senses. She's not cold, and her surroundings seem soft, not hard like concrete. Someone has moved her. She listened for the tell tale-clinking that would signal that she's in jail, but all she hears is silence.

Finally she wills her eyes open once, twice, and then shuts them at the brightness of the light that greets them. After a moment, she blinks rapidly to clear the cobwebs from her vision, expecting to be in a hospital room, but she's not. As she turns her head and takes in her surroundings, it looks like a sitting room of some sort. She can see a couple of couches, a low table. It looks nice, much nicer than she 's seen in awhile. Her family lived in fairly nice surroundings considering the part of town they lived in, but this was swanky and spacious. Santana cranes her neck enough to see that she's laying on a couch of some sort…a day bed, she thinks it's called, and covered by a sheet and an embroidered blanket. A chandelier hangs in the middle of the room, bathing it in bright, warm light; the carpet is intricate and expensive looking. Even the furniture, table, and wallpaper looked pricey, for God's sake, and Santana knows that she's not in the east side anymore. Christ, there's even has a brand new record player in the corner.

Santana's mouth is dry; she tries to lick her lips and then suppresses a cough, knowing that the jolting will only worsen her already-throbbing shoulder. Then her ears detect footsteps. The green-eyed woman makes her way into the room, and without a flicker of worry on her face, takes a fancy mahogany chair and sits close to Santana.

"You're awake," the woman says neutrally.

"Keen observation," Santana manages to croak. With that, she knows that she'll be okay. This girl…she reminds Santana of someone.

"Your eyes are familiar. You look like someone I know." Santana racks her brain for who this girl looks like…

It hits Santana like a load of bricks. The resemblance is too close for it not to be so.

"Oh my God, you're related to Rosie," Santana groans.

"Rosie Fabray is my cousin."

Despite the pain that tears through her left arm with each movement, Santana finds herself seized by fits of laughter. "I knew I recognized something…"

"And I know you," the woman quips brusquely, "and I know your kind. You attract trouble, so as soon as you are able to walk get the hell out of here."

"What the hell?" Santana retorts. "I was attacked by drunken thugs. I'm a fucking invalid, for Christ's sake. I almost died."

"Yeah," hisses the woman, "it would have been your own damn fault, too. You idiot."

"Quinn?" A voice calls from far off, and Santana turns her head to see a kitchen down the hall, but she can't see anyone.

"Hey, eyes back here, horn dog," Quinn orders sharply, which Santana only obeys because in her state a ten year old could beat her up, much less a person of about equal size and weight. "Brittany and I kept you alive, so repay the favor by keeping your mouth shut, your head down, and getting out of here as fast as you're physically able."

"I guess I should thank you for saving me," Santana shifts herself so that she's sitting up in the bed. She notices that she's shirtless (and by the feeling of the cotton sheet on her legs, pantless as well) but she's never been ashamed of her body so the realization that she's half-naked in a stranger's bed only upsets her because it wasn't for something more amorous.

Quinn exhales sharply, letting out a "humph" of incredulity. "It was Brittany who stitched you up and convinced me not to drop you off on the steps of the Chief of Police, because I would have left you to rot in jail if I'd had my choice."

Santana could see the girl now, Brittany, or at least the back of her, in the kitchen, fussing over something on the stove. She's tall, and has a mane of golden hair, even more golden than Quinn's. Santana leans forward from her position against the pillows and wishes she would turn around and come closer, but Quinn catches her looking at the oblivious girl.

"Hey…Lopez…hey..." Santana unwillingly turns her attention back to the other blonde. "Keep your eyes away from places they don't belong."

Santana merely shrugs her shoulders and leans back against the pillows. "Fine."

Quinn "humphs" again and stands from her perch on the chair. "I've gotta go. Brittany's making you some tea, so you will be polite. And most importantly, you will be gone when I get back tomorrow morning. Got it?"

Santana lays her right hand on the bare skin of her chest in mock sincerity. "Yes, ma'am!"

Quinn merely rolls her eyes, calls out a "goodbye" to the girl in the kitchen, turns on her heel, and stalks out of the apartment.

"Don't worry, she always acts like she's got a broom pole up her ass." Santana whips her eyes in the direction of the voice, and finally sets eyes on Brittany.

Her eyes. If Rosie's eyes were pretty, and Quinn's eyes were beautiful, then her eyes were damn angelic. They smiled at her, just smiled along with the rest of her face, sparkling, icy blue. They emanated kindness and warmth. Santana, for once in her life, is rendered nearly speechless.

The rest of her is just as stunning. Tall, slim, gorgeous, clad in a simple black skirt and a shirt that matches her eyes. Santana feels that she's ordinary in comparison (and she's never felt self conscious in her life), and with a blush adorning her features she pulls the sheet over her half-naked body.

Brittany giggles and makes her way slowly over the chair where Quinn just sat, and offers her a steaming mug of something. Santana takes it, and sips slowly. Hot tea.

"Quinn told me you were bad news," Brittany begins without pretense, and the straightforward nature of the other woman nearly makes Santana spit out the tea that she's drinking. But she keeps her composure. She thinks that she still has a little bit of charm in her.

"I can be trouble, sure," Santana replies coyly, which only causes Brittany to giggle again.

"If I'm such bad news, why didn't you let your friend take me to the police?" Santana asks.

"You looked nice. And you're pretty." Her reply causes Santana to blush again.

"Is that all?" Santana replies.

"Well, you didn't look in any shape to do anything but sleep," Brittany admits. "I kind of felt sorry for you, if you want the truth."

"Oh, I feel real tough now," Santana comments snidely and lays her head back against the wall.

"Did you want to look tough?" Santana watches the girl carefully, trying to detect any jest or any malice in her voice, but her look is purely and innocently inquisitive.

"I guess so. I mean, I gotta keep up with my brothers, being the only girl in my family and all. " Santana doesn't know why she's saying these things to a complete stranger, but Brittany seems harmless.

"Well I don't have any brothers. I have a cousin though, and he can be a real jerk. Can't stand him, most of the time." Brittany leans back into the chair and crosses her long, lovely legs. Santana almost spits her tea out again.

"Well I like my brothers, we've always gotten along. Why am I telling this to a total stranger I don't know."

Brittany sticks out one perfect hand towards Santana and offers a smile. "I'm Brittany."

Santana can only smile back. "Santana. It's nice to meet you." And surprisingly enough, Santana found that she really meant it.

Brittany giggles yet again. "Now we're not strangers."

Santana had slid down the pillow with all this movement, and she winces as she attempts to push herself back up to a sitting position. Brittany sees Santana struggling and leans forward to help her. As she softness of her hands lightly grip the skin of her right arm, Santana's heart begin to speed. Brittany smells like violets. It's intoxicating, and for a second Santana forgets all about her pain. That is, of course, until Brittany leaves and then comes back with a bowl of soapy warm water and a rag.

"We've got to clean it," Brittany explains softly, and puts the bowl on the chair. "Can I?"

Santana nods dumbly and watches Brittany as she leans across her, gently dabbing the cloth against her injured shoulder. The slight twinges of pain are the only sensations that are keeping Santana from creepily staring at the girl that is just inches from her face.

"Do you remember anything from last night?" Brittany asks as she cleans the wound.

"Not really, just bits and pieces," Santana replies, and tries to keep her mind off the fact that Brittany smells really, really good.

"You were fading in and out," Brittany continues, "I was afraid you had lost too much blood."

The edge of the rag drags across the wound, and Santana hisses in pain and looks down at her shoulder. She sees a neat set of stitches where the open wound once was.

"You did this?" Santana asks, reaching her right hand across to touch the tender skin around the stitches.

"Yeah," Brittany replies, "I have to patch up my dad and his friends all the time. It's just something that I've always done. Here's a robe so you don't get cold."

Santana swings her legs over the edge of the sofa and slips on the robe, a nice silk number, with a little help from Brittany, who ties the sash. Her hands come uncomfortably close to Santana's midsection, who has to remind herself of Quinn's threat as her breath hitches slightly at Brittany's proximity.

"Are you a nurse or something?"

Brittany smiles. "No, I'm not anything."

"Sure you are," Santana offers her best seductive smile, and she swears that she sees a blush on Brittany's face.

"Well," she offers, "I like to dance. I did ballet until a few years ago."

"Oh yeah?"

Brittany nods. "But I broke my ankle when I was 15 and haven't danced since." It's the first time that something akin to sadness creeps into Brittany's voice. For some reason, Santana is overcome with a desire to drive that sadness from her voice, so she changes the subject.

"Is that a Victrola in the corner?"

Brittany's face brightens up again. "Yeah. That was a birthday present from my father, do you want to hear something?"

Santana shrugs her one good shoulder as nonchalantly. "Whaddya got?"

"Stravinsky, Tchaikovsky, Beethoven, Bach, Robert Johnson, Blind Lemmon Jefferson, Frank Stoke…"

"Wait….hold on one minute…you listen to the Blues?" Santana asks.

"Sure," Brittany replies brightly. "It's good to dance to sometimes, and even better to listen to. Does that surprise you?"

Santana nods. "You just seem so proper. So….white."

Brittany lays a record, and then turns to wag a finger at her. "Blues isn't black or white, it's blue, Santana." Santana can only chuckle.

It's a Frank Stoke record, lively Memphis blues. And then Brittany begins to dance. She bobs her head, sways her hips to the music and moves her feet as if no one is there to watch her, and all Santana can do is stare in amazement. Soon, Brittany notices her staring, and holds out one hand as if inviting her.

"Dance with me," she says, and all Santana can do is stand and obey.

Santana isn't a very good dancer and she knows it, but that doesn't really matter as she twirls the blonde-haired girl with her one good arm and moves along with her to the bass and the guitars. Brittany is absolutely stunning. Graceful and gorgeous, she'd entrance anyone who saw her move like this, Santana was sure.

As they dance, Santana realizes that this doesn't make any sense. She's virtually a stranger, they don't even know each other's last names. They obviously come from different worlds, and yet, they seem to have more in common than first meets the eye. So Santana ignores the questions and just dances, because she's with a pretty girl and hell, she could be dead.

They dance and dance, until the record is done, and they are both gasping for breath.

"Ugh, I need some pain medication," Santana wheezes as she sits back down on the couch.

"I think Quinn has some aspirin in the bathroom, if you want some," says Brittany.

"I'd rather have a nice glass of whiskey," Santana admits. The statement was half-truth and half bait, she was eager to see Brittany's reaction.

But Brittany just shrugs. "I have a bottle here, but it's just rotgut shit. I think we'd have to go somewhere else to find good stuff."

This surprises Santana, but only slightly. Brittany doesn't seem to be fazed by her. Santana usually gets a thrill out of shocking girls, especially beautiful ones, but Brittany hasn't blinked an eye with her cussing or her unladylike speech. Plus, any girl who's willing to break out the juice at what must be noon-ish is pretty cool by her standards.

"Beggars can't be choosers, I suppose."

Brittany returns to the kitchen and comes back with a bottle and two glasses, then settles down on the couch next to Santana. She pours two drinks and offers one to the dark-haired girl. "Medicine, right?"

Santana takes the proffered glass with a grin. "Right." She holds up her glass. "Cheers."

"Cheers," replies Brittany, and they each down their drinks in one gulp.

Santana is starting to think that she really likes this girl.

**Review pretty please?**


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